


Wisdom Fairy

by TriskyMcCloy



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-20 23:39:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10673151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriskyMcCloy/pseuds/TriskyMcCloy





	1. Chapter 1

I guess it must have started off with that fucking thump. Just a bit of pressure beating a constant rhythm against the wall of my mouth. Almost involuntarily, blood seems to rush forward to make up for the lack of circulation and you get that thumping feeling. Like the few times my hands have been constricted by rope or handcuffs, a sock once, which was meant to teach Justin a lesson about... nothing, forget that. Now is not the time and place for pleasant memories. Misery, I've learned, tends to want the entire joint to itself. 

Thump, thump, thump, that's all I felt for days. I didn't think anything of it, had no reason to really. I'm not particularly known for paying attention to warning signs I don't want to see, or picking up on signals that I'd rather ignore. No, I'm definitely not known for that shit. If I were more inclined to be, maybe I could have saved myself from some of the more ridiculous situations I've been in. Painful, some might call them. 

At this very moment, all I know is that I couldn't be bothered paying attention. If I had I probably could have saved myself from the near fucking fetal position I'm about to find myself in. Never mind that I don't actually have any room to do that in this little tin box I call a car. What possesses me to do totally impractical things, without thinking, over and over again? Like deciding to buy this deathtrap without blinking, and now trying to roll myself into a ball with about two feet of space in front of me? I can barely fit my head between my knees. I bet my casket will have more breathing room. The fact that I'm dead won't matter in the long run. I'll be comfortable and blissfully, willfully unaware. 

I'm going to die in this position. From pain, from him sliding on the black ice into an intersection and my head crashing into the dashboard or from the aneurysm that's probably forming in my mouth as I plan my certain death. I'm not sure how yet, but I'm sure this is going to wind up being my curtain call. 

********* 

I don't like pain. Actually, what I really mean to say is that I really, really, really don't like pain. I can't emphasize that enough. I don't like feeling it. I don't like seeing anyone else having to feel it. I don't like causing it and I don't like to be on the receiving end of it. I don't like it, but it seems to follow me around wherever I go. I'm not saying I'm totally responsible for it or anything. Even I'm not that self-centered, sometimes yeah, but not in this case. I just have this way of attracting it. It's kind of like I'm the sticky fly-paper of pain. It just multiplies and clings to me. Buzzes until it casts one last feeble wing at the wind, attempting to fly away to freedom, until it slowly dies and fades away leaving nothing but a carcass stuck to glue. You never really rid yourself of flies though, do you? You can swat them away, hit them with a shoe, spray them with poison and just as soon as one is dead, along comes another. That's what it's like with pain and me. I have this amazing power to make it contagious. Most of the time I don't even have to be in the room. 

I wasn't in the room this morning, though I probably should have been. I probably should be doing a lot of things I haven't been doing. I'm just not always sure what's acceptable and what's not. So instead I don't do anything. I just kind of sit back and wait for my moments and try to grab them and hold on before they're out of my reach again. Not that patience is one of my strong suits, but I'm learning just the same. 

I was actually off in my own bed for the first time in three days, sleeping peacefully on my back. The dreaded position that I try to avoid whenever I sleep next to him, which is more often than not these days. But that's one of those things that I'm just not sure what to do with, so I just let it be. He says my snoring could wake the dead when I sleep on my back. Says that he can't sleep and my body is a total dead weight so he can't push me into another position. I get my best sleep on my back. It's a deep and totally unconscious, lips parted, drool coming out of my mouth, tongue hanging out, nostrils flaring state. Maybe it's the air getting trapped in the back of my lungs. It's the death position. After all, you don't see dead bodies lying on their stomachs in their caskets, do you? 

So there I lay like a dead man, dreaming pale, uninteresting dreams. The next thing I know there's something in my ear and I know I didn't put it there, but the sound is shrill and loud and it makes me almost aware that I'm not dead. If I were, I wouldn't be in hell, which might have been the last thing I hear in my state. Something along the lines of "I'm in fucking hell and I'm dragging your ass with me." I think. Maybe. It was sort of garbled and I was sort of trying to go back to bed. It was only then that I was aware of a groggy Daphne holding my cellphone to my head in an effort to mercifully make the ringing stop. 

Shit, it may as well have been a gun. That might have been quicker and less painful for everyone involved. 

*********** 

I think I'd be more comfortable if the Angel of Death would take the white jacket off and just leave the blue scrubs on. He feels a little bit too official this way. I half expect him to snap rubber gloves on next and excavate my organs without the help of a scalpel. Maybe he'll just reach down my throat and pull them out. So that's what the X-rays were for. Now it makes all sorts of sense. He needed clearer pictures of what he was dealing with. It's a good thing my best organs are the ones that are visible to the naked eye because there's not much worth salvaging on the inside. 

He really could be the devil personified for all I know. He sort of looks like the picture my mind would conjure up. Short, slight frame, balding, ruddy skin, downcast eyes, markings indented on his head from the unsightly goggles around his neck and very big teeth, all the better to chew threw my veins. I suppose I won't be lead gracefully into temptation after all. It's a good thing, since I've been known to have a tendency for tempting and then sacrificing the pure and virginal in the past. Only once, but look how that turned out. I'm pretty sure I'm going to hell for that one. 

"Brian Kinney?" He extends his hand in my direction and I notice the telltale sign of evil, a very large, very gold, very thick wedding band. "I'm Dr. Markinson. I would say it's a pleasure, but given the circumstances I wouldn't blame you for kicking me in the shins if I did. Open wide.” I’m used to being the one that makes that request. He takes a quick perusal, which thankfully doesn’t require too much effort to keep my mouth open. A few seconds more and I might not have been able to close it back up. “So let's take a look at these X-rays and see what they say." He snaps the chart out of his assistant's hand and slaps it on the examining light so quickly, it's almost symphonic. She shuffles paper in a file, marking notations on the flap, my measurements no doubt, while he considers the scariest picture I've ever seen, a panoramic view of my mouth. It does, however, explain how I can fit so much in there all at once. 

The entire left side of my face is surely melting off slowly, inch by inch. It's the only way to explain the white hot burning pain running from my jaw to my ear and now under my eye. 

"Well Mr. Kinney, make yourself comfortable. You might be here awhile." He bears his fangs in a polite smile and I have no recourse but to follow him down his scary little path into hell. 

"What's wrong? Do I need a root canal?" 

"Not quite. The good news is you have a few options. The bad news is I wouldn't recommend many of them. Just how old are you Mr. Kinney?" He scribbles quickly on the file he keeps exchanging with his assistant, Mrs. She-Devil in coordinating all white scrubs. I briefly wonder if you're supposed to leave cookies and milk out for the Devil when he comes knocking? Or is that only for fat, ugly old men? 

"What the fuck does my age have to do with wanting you to rip my jaw off my face?" That's the first time and only time I ever hope to think such a thing much less ask it out loud. Like I said, I'm in hell. 

"I'd say you're what? Early to mid-thirties?" Bastard. "Did anyone ever recommend you have your wisdom teeth removed when you were younger?" He crosses his arms casually and a tuft of hair peeks out over the top of his scrubs. I'm suddenly repulsed. "This conversation would be entirely different if you were 17 or 18." 

I can't remember if anyone ever recommended it back then. If they did I'm sure Jack told them he wasn't going to fucking pay for any unnecessary surgery. If I wasn't in pain, then why bother messing around with it? Even if I was, the necessity was probably still debatable. "So what, you have to remove it? Go ahead." I can barely move my mouth to form words. I don't care what he has to do, I just want the pain to go away. 

"Let me explain what's happening." He points to the X-ray with a pen, drawing imaginary circles around the area of my mouth that currently feels like I'm chewing razors. "Your wisdom tooth is impacted. Your mouth was only designed to hold so many teeth. When your wisdom teeth start forming they take root, build themselves up and then try to take over. The way they often do that is to lean against the tooth next to them. That builds a wall of pressure on that tooth to shift and make room for them. The problem is your mouth doesn't have room for them, so it erupts and causes fissures and that's when the pain starts." 

"So what difference does it make how old I am?" I lean my jaw into my palm. It doesn't really relieve the pain, but it lets me focus on things sideways. I'm not entirely up to facing things head on at the moment.

"The older you get, the more entrenched the roots of the nerve become and the harder they are to untangle." 

No kidding, you don't say. "So, what are my options?" Death seems kind. 

"We can relieve it temporarily with painkillers..." I lift a finger for an order, stat. "We can wait, and you can schedule an appointment or wait and you ignore it some more, and just wind up back here soon enough complaining of worse pain. Or we can pull it. In which case I suggest we pull all of them today." 

Our father who art in heaven... if Jack is up there with you by some fucking miracle, spit on him. "Can't we just do one and then worry about the other three some other time?" 

"Here's the part where I'm going to be brutally honest with you." For the first time I notice he's wearing glasses. Somehow in my haze, I didn't notice that. Not that dentists should have perfect vision, but if they're going to stick their stubby fingers, bearing sharp objects, in my mouth, I want them to be able to fucking see where they're sticking them and what they're removing. I kind of need my mouth to be functioning more than most people. A slight sense of panic turns my veins cold. 

"I didn't realize you weren't before this." Maybe Joanie was right and God does hate me after all. 

"The truth is, most patients don't want to come back after they've done one. At least, not until they're doubled over in pain again. The other truth is, it's not four times the pain, you'll be in pain already. Would you rather have to do it four times or once?" 

I wouldn't wish this feeling on anyone. Not even Joanie. "Fine, take them all out. Just get this fucking tooth out of my mouth." 

"The top set should come out pretty easily. They'll just leave a couple of holes that we'll stitch up. There's a very minute chance it'll affect your sinuses, but they look pretty good, I don't think we have anything to worry about there." Of course "we" don't have anything to worry about. It's my fucking mouth! "You won't even notice they're gone. They haven't even broken the skin." I have a sudden vision of an invasion of plastic green army men surrounding my gums and holding my teeth at bay. Painkillers would probably be good right about now. 

"The only other thing I have to warn you about is the risk involved in taking out the bottom teeth." What fucking idiot said something about life not being worth living without risk? Someone should really knock some sense into him. "There's a fairly significant nerve running along your chin and anytime you start digging around there you run the risk of damaging that nerve. It could cause temporary numbness of your lip and chin, in the worst case, permanent. But it's very rare and I'm very good at what I do." 

Figures the bottom half would be so good at dominating and running the show. "So, let me get this straight." I don't even have the energy to think of a bad pun. "You have to remove something that shouldn't have been there to start with, but for whatever inexplicable reason just builds itself up and takes over. And if you fuck it up, I go numb." Just fucking fabulous. 

"And if I don't, you go pain free and the rest of your teeth can settle into the places they've belonged this entire time. So? What'll it be?" 

I can be numb or I can be free. 

"Start digging." 

********** 

I haven't been this intimidated by official paperwork since I took the SAT's. Okay, so the test itself didn't really intimidate me either. In fact, I kind of half slept through some of the questions. I had a pretty late night, the night before I took them. Most of which I don't remember now but I'm sure must have been worth it. It was the weight of the thing that freaked me out. It just seemed like so much of my future depended on some shitty test. No one tells you that not everything depends on the score or that ultimately you're really judged on being a well-rounded applicant. They put the fear of God into you to do well, and six months down the line everyone forgets what you scored anyway. 

That doesn't stop me from feeling like I'm about to be a total and complete failure if I can't answer a simple question like Brian's date of birth. He'd probably lie. I can answer the obvious questions, weight, height, address, but how am I supposed to know his social security number? I can barely remember mine. Not to mention his medical history. I feel like I should know this, that this should be common knowledge. I should know whether or not he's ever had any heart conditions or been on medication for an extended period of time. I freeze, my hands feel clammy and the pen slips onto the floor. I can't even picture what's in his medicine chest. This is all wrong. I lick my dry lips and retrieve the pen from the floor. Maybe a few deep breaths will calm me down. It's just a fucking dentist... that's about to knock him out cold and if I answer the questions wrong, maybe he won't wake up. 

"Excuse me ma'am." I clear my throat loudly. "I was wondering if you could let me see Mr. Kinney. He has to sign some of these papers and answer some of these questions." I reluctantly show her the unfinished paperwork resting on a clipboard decorated with a border of sunflowers, of all things. How distracting. 

"Sure, but please call me Lisa. I'm not old enough to be a ma'am." She laughs a light sound that immediately puts me at ease. "The doctor isn't ready for him yet anyway. You wouldn't happen to know the last time he ate, would you?" 

A meal? Or something else? "Probably last night. I think he might have already been in pain." I would have had more answers if my stupid self didn't feel the need to make a statement about going home to my own bed. He was just being so cranky and unresponsive. I should have known better. 

She leads me down the hall, padding on the soft carpet in head to toe purple. Purple booties, purple pants and a purple smock. It's not the most flattering look, but she sure looks comfortable. "That's good. Generally we recommend patients not eat for at least 8 hours before they have anesthesia. What about smoking?" 

I try to give my best disapproving look. "He might have had one or two puffs." I'm not entirely sure she wants to know of what. 

She smirks. I'm sure she can guess. It's probably not the first time she's heard it. "I'll make sure the doctor knows. Go ahead, he's in the last room on the right." 

"Thanks." My stomach turns several times. You'd think I was walking into a morgue to identify his body. 

"Be careful, he's a little... testy," she says, as if it’s not one of those unestablished facts, like the clouds being blue or time constantly moving forward. She takes his chart from the counter, filled with whatever information I could provide. Stuffed in the folder it suddenly looks like a hell of a lot more than it did when it was in my hands. 

I stop at the doorframe. He's sort of slumped over in the chair, resting his jaw miserably in his hand. "Hey." He looks up at me, if you can call shifting his eyelids a millimeter towards the door, looking up at me. "I don't mean to bother you, but you have to sign some of these papers and answer the questions I can't figure out." 

"What do I have to answer?" He's quiet, too quiet. 

I'm wounded. I seriously think I have a flesh wound somewhere on my body, that's just spilling blood all over the floor. It's the only way to account for feeling so totally useless and hurt at the same time. I stare at the floor because I can't face him like this. "Just stuff like whether you have any serious medical conditions or anything. What drugs you're allergic to." 

He lifts a slight eyebrow, and closes his eyes. His voice is all ragged, pained edges. "Just check them all off no. I'm not allergic to anything and the longest I've ever spent in a hospital is when you were in one." 

I... nothing. Just pain. 

"Okay, but you still have to sign these things where I put an X. You're the patient." I reluctantly hold the biography of his life, all broken into simple facts, out to him. Maybe that's all we are, whatever fits onto those pages. What we look like, how old we are, what our occupation is, where we live, what our health is like. What more do you need to know? 

He switches hands so he can continue holding his jaw, while freeing up his right hand to sign. It's awkward at best, there's no real way to grip the clipboard without using his elbows. I can see him struggling to flip the pages and he looks almost helpless. I don't know his entire medical history but I do know he'd rather drop dead than look helpless. I don't know what to do. I shouldn't do anything. I should just let it be and not make it any worse.

I slip my hand onto his cheek, cupping his jaw into my palm and rub the top of his head with my other hand. I swear he leans into my grasp. I can feel it. Brian Kinney, 6'3", former ad executive, with no allergies leans into my hand. Me, Justin Taylor, 5'8", former college student with more allergies than I can count. Everything I need to know is in my hands. 

I rub my thumb over his hair lightly as he scribbles furiously on the clipboard in his hands. "Do you even know what you're signing? Do you care?" I'm sort of glad he's flipping through it quickly. Less chance for him to correct me. 

"It's the same everywhere you go, patient privacy, patient responsibility. If they kill you, you agree that it's all your fault and they won’t reveal it, unless you say it’s okay." Must be nice to have that put it writing. Maybe we should have that in all sorts of areas of our lives. We can just automatically assign blame and responsibility at will with a simple signature. If we agree before it even happens, all the better, then no one has to bother with guilt or unnecessary pain. We can just bear whatever responsibility we agreed to and shuck off the rest onto someone else. Sounds familiar. 

"You should have told me last night. I would’ve stayed." If we had a responsibility pact, he could totally blame all of this on me. Maybe they're not such a good idea after all. 

"And did what?" He pushes the signed papers away from him. It's probably a little overwhelming to have to examine all of that stuff right before they're about to knock you out and take part of you away. 

"This." I kiss the spot my thumb just rubbed on his forehead. That gets his attention. He really does look up at me. There's appreciation there and that calms me somewhat. 

I don't want him to feel alone. I know it's just his teeth, but I also know what it's like to feel pain and feel like no one wants to comfort you so that you feel safer, it not better. There's not a lot I can do for him, but I can be right here when he needs it. I should have been there earlier. Maybe I could have prevented it from getting as bad as it did. I guess I can't erase history. I'm here now, and all that matters is he knows when he wakes up, a little worse for the wear and a little different than he was before he went under, that I'll still be here. I'll wait as long as I have to and make it as easy on him as possible. 

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to interrupt." Lisa's warm, supple voice grabs my attention. "We need to do some prep work. I promise you can sit with him in the recovery room when he's done." 

"I'll be outside.” I’m not sure he really wants me to leave, but I don’t have much of a choice. “Can you do me one favor? Don't give them any shit." He heeds my warning with a faint smile and dull eyes. 

I take his life, from his hands. Charted in simple questions and answers, all responsibility accounted for, owned up to and signed off by him. Except one thing. The board shakes and one of the peeling sunflowers dangles precariously off the side as I shuffle my feet down the hall, holding it to my chest and sign one last dotted line. All he needs to know is that the pain is about to go away. Nothing else. 

**********

Don't leave. 

I watch you turn and disappear behind a haze of purple and massive curls. I know you can't stay, but I don't want you to leave.

About the only good thing to come from this situation is that I literally can't open my mouth to speak. It hurts too damn much to make the effort.

Don'tleaveDon'tleaveDon'tleaveDon'tleave. I'm not sure that means I want you around all the time, but I don't want to be left behind either. I want to decide when it’s the right time for you to go, or for me to leave, whenever that is, even if it’s never. 

Don't leave. I'll catch up with you eventually. Then what will you do? 

Just... don't leave.

If I could speak, it might hurt even more.

**********

It’s genius, this business of having magazines to distract you in a doctor’s office. Your hands are occupied flipping pages you’re not paying attention to. So you can't bite your nails, drum your fingers or throw anything. If you happen to be paying attention to what you’re reading, you get so depressed about the state of the world that you can't concern yourself with something as trivial as a trip to the doctor. Not when there are bombs and wars and disease. We all become momentary geniuses, up on current events in places we've never heard of, in a waiting room. Then we go right back to ignoring the issues once we’re done. Right back to our small little lives. It’s a total distraction, a welcome one at that. We just go from one state of trying to ignore things to another. 

I suppose it’s not a bad way to live a life, unaware but happy. That which we don't know can't hurt us and all. Eventually though, we all get stuck somewhere, bored or anxious and we want a distraction to take our minds off of it. I think I'd rather be prepared, and admit beforehand that I know nothing than to assume I know everything I need to know and be jolted out of my ignorance. 

“Goodness, it’s really coming down out there.” I look up from the page I've been reading for half an hour. The snow isn't falling, it’s dumping itself all over the place. I didn't even know it was supposed to snow today. “We've had five cancellations already this morning. I'm not used to having nothing to do.” Lisa, my Barney in training smiles a friendly smile and rearranges the magazines on the various tabletops. I wonder if she’s this nice to everyone? I feel like, I don't know, she’s being extra nice. Straight people do that sometimes, I've noticed. Some weird form of over the top acceptance to show how cool they are. Or maybe she’s just being nice and I've spent too much time listening to Brian.

“Assuming he survives this, I hope I don't kill us on the drive home.” 

“He'll be fine.” It’s a tired reassurance. She must spend the bulk of her time nodding sympathetically. “If you want my advice, I'd go to the store now while you have nothing to do and pick up whatever you don't have at home, because I'm not sure you'll be able to get to one if this snow keeps up.”

I didn't realize dental procedures came with shopping lists. “What do I have to pick up?” I don't remember much of my own recovery from when I had it done, because it was fairly unremarkable. It wasn't overwhelming pain. I was pretty young and they were barely formed. They came out one, two, three.

She sits down with one foot crossed under her thigh, running her fingers absentmindedly through the ends of her hair. “Liquids, soft foods. Whatever you think he'll be able to manage for the next few days. Maybe something to keep him occupied so he’s not constantly thinking about his mouth.”

Oh, this is going to be so much harder than I thought. “Do supermarkets sell poppers?” I mumble half to myself, half to the four walls.

“Cheese poppers? Sure they do. Those might be a little hard to chew at first, but you can try I suppose.”

I can physically feel my eyes widen and my eyebrows cave into the shape of a stupefied question. “You’re right, you’re absolutely right, that’s probably a bad idea,” I stutter. I clear my throat and swallow my laugh. I forget sometimes that there’s a life outside of Babylon’s doors that feels like it’s a million miles away. “What'll happen when he wakes up?” I cross my arms and shake my leg nervously. The second most popular way to occupy yourself in a waiting room, being defensive.

“He'll be pretty groggy and out of it.” That shouldn't be too terribly difficult to handle. “He'll probably whine and act like a baby for a day or two. Forgive him, he’s entitled. Don't take it personally, but don't let him get used to it either. Trust me, I know.” Okay, that makes me laugh and it makes me charitable. I think she might just be a nice lady.

“I'm already pretty good at not doing that actually.” The voice of experience rings out.

“Good, that’s a point in your favor. Now as far as food and things. Some people suggest you keep the patient on liquids or things like soup, anything he can suck through a straw. But personally, I think you should try and get him started on solids as soon as you can. It’s good to exercise his jaw a little, relieve some of the tension.” I look down and back up and down again. I'm not having this conversation. “I don't want to scare you, but...”

Why do people always qualify that right before they give you a major coronary? “It'll lock into place if I don't make him move it?”

“No, he’s not the Tinman. It doesn't need to be oiled up, it'll move on its own.” She stops futzing around with her hair, dropping both hands to rest on her knee. “He'll be swollen and probably bruised and he might spit blood out for a bit. As long as it’s not profuse, it’s okay. You have to make sure he doesn't have a fever because then that means he’s got an infection.”

I stop moving and let my arms fall to both armrests. I can't do this. I thought I could but I was lying to myself. I can't even visualize him spitting out blood, what am I going to do if it actually happens? She rubs my shoulder lightly. It doesn't matter does it? What I can and can't deal with. You find a way and you do it. “And the pain? How bad does that get?”

“Probably no worse than he was when he came in.” Well that makes me feel a whole lot better, or you know, not really. “It'll only be bad when the painkillers start to wear off. Mostly, he'll be uncomfortable. He won't know how to adjust to make it feel any better. Maybe that can be your job. You seemed to know what to do to comfort him back there.”

I did? I guess if you call knowing how to stay out of his way a comfort. Or knowing how to keep him out of his own way. “I should probably take your advice and go to the store.” I'm sure his stash of Jack Daniel’s and protein shakes won't qualify as nourishment for three days, though he'd have me believe otherwise. I'll get him some soup in a can, some soft fruit he can chew and some ice cream. There’s absolutely nothing like ice cream in a warm room on a winter day. That could be a nice distraction.

“Why don't we take care of the bill before you go, so you don't have to deal with it when you get back? You can just go right to him.”

The bill, all $1500 of it. Fucking Stockwell strikes again. Just when I think he’s done all the damage he possibly can, he manages to surprise me. You can take a lot away from Brian, his job, his money, his furniture, but encroaching on his pride is crossing a boundary that shouldn't be touched. I'm almost grateful he was too transfixed by pain to notice the agreement to pay. It’s not something he needs to worry about five minutes before he’s about to go under. He’s got enough on his plate. I'll just have to find a way to ignore the subject as long as possible, at least until he’s recovered enough to curse me out.

“Sure, let’s do that.” I reach in my pocket for my wallet without hesitation.

I don't know how many times he warned me not to take one of those credit cards they offer you at every turn when you start college. He knew from experience, that’s what he said. Every other piece of mail seems to be a come on. Get them while they’re young, I suppose. I can't say it was a temptation I could easily ignore. It’s difficult when you can't figure out how you’re going to pay for tuition, much less books and supplies. I'm glad I did now. It’s one of the few lies I've ever told him. If you can call not telling him, lying. Of course you can. So yeah, I lied. I never asked him about his financial situation, I see no need to have told him about mine at that point.

I follow her to the desk, contemplating the amount of time I have before he wakes up. “Thanks, by the way, for seeing him on an emergency basis.” I feel bad for being suspicious of her motives. She’s totally innocuous. Maybe she’s a lesbian.

“Not a problem. It’s a good thing Dr. Richards recommended he come right here. We might have closed early and then he would have been stuck.” And I would have been the one stuck with him.

She stabs the buttons on the electronic credit card machine before sliding the card through. I have a moment of anxiety that there’s not enough room to cover the charges. I always have that moment before they hand me a pen to sign for another successful transaction. It seems to take forever, but finally the receipt begins printing. “Do you want to just sign one more thing for me?”

I wonder what would happen if I didn't? Technically I couldn't be held responsible for anything they charged, could I? “Sure.” If he’s big enough to take responsibility for his own potential death, the least I can do is be responsible for paying for it. “Can I ask you a favor?” 

“What’s that?” She smiles brightly, giving me her total and absolute attention. Too much of it actually. I'm such an ass. Is she flirting with me? I'm pretty sure she figured the deal out. I think. Then again, I don't even know “the deal”, how could anyone else?

“If I'm not back by the time he wakes up, just make sure he knows I'm coming back.” That I'll always come back.

“I was thinking of making him wait in the snow if he told me to ‘fucking’ do one more thing...” Cringe, cringe, cringe. “However since his boyfriend is such a nice guy and is so concerned about him, I'll give him a reprieve.” We exchange smiles. I don't do anything. I just let it be.

“Thanks.”

When did being nice become so suspect? I could stand to take things at face value a little more. Brian would have my head if I admitted that. I'd hand it to him, because I'd be an idiot if I did. Sometimes though, a gesture is just a gesture, a thing is a thing. A moment is just a moment. It just is.

He just is. We just are. Whatever that is.


	2. Wisdom Fairy

I can officially cross drug addict off my list of presumed disorders. You don’t know what addiction really means until you’ve experienced a craving for something so deep and guttural inside you, that you can’t function without it. I’ve never had that problem before. I function just fine on a day to day basis without crutches. I can get up in the morning, live my life and do my thing without any help, liquid, powder, tab or otherwise. If I want to experiment recreationally on my own time, that’s something else entirely. If I want to just lose myself for a little while that still doesn’t make me an addict, because I don’t need to do it. I have no deep reason for doing it, I do it because I feel like doing it.

 

I don’t need a lot. It’s not vital in life to constantly need. That’s a fallacy we tell ourselves to justify the things we want that we can’t explain otherwise. When the need becomes so great that it overtakes our common sense and we’re paralyzed by it, then maybe there’s a problem. I’m not sure I could ever be a serious hardcore addict. It takes far too much dependence on variables that I can’t control. If I needed a bottle of liquor, I’d have to find the money. Hell, I’d have to have the money. Then I’d have to find a store and it would have to be open and if it wasn’t, I’d have to find another one. If I were into the harder shit, it’d be even more precarious. I like instant gratification far too much to bother with all of that.

 

I know what I want in life and what I absolutely need and there’s not big market crossover potential there.

 

What I need right now, what I know I can’t do without and how I know I’m not a fucking addict on a regular basis because I’ve never felt like this, is a Vicodin. Or three. 

 

**********

 

I need to pee. There’s no question in my mind that I need to pee. I know that I need to get up in order to pee. I know that if I need to get up in order to pee, I’m not going to be able to lay back down and go right back to sleep. I know the fact that I’m already awake enough to realize that probably means that the chances of my falling back to sleep have already been significantly diminished. 

 

For fuck’s sake, it’s not even dark yet, and the blinding white of the snow is making it even lighter than normal. My eyes can’t adjust to this light. This may be the longest day of my life. I need a good eight hours of uninterrupted sleep to recharge and get my bearings again. 

 

Hopefully the drugs have knocked him out. I don’t think I can take another blood laced spit cup for a few hours. If I keep my eyes closed when I walk past his side of the bed, maybe I can ignore it. Maybe I can stay half asleep and pretend this is just a dream.

Fuck! If I don’t pee soon, my bladder is going to explode and I won’t have to worry about his blood spewing, there’ll be more than enough of my own to take up the slack.

 

It feels like I’m carrying a brick fresh from the oven in my bladder, burning, heavy pain. I have to be careful not to put too much pressure on it when I sit forward. I don’t want to make any sudden movements. I could take the long way and climb off the bed and walk around it, or I could walk over him and save half the trip. I suppose I could do this without tripping or waking him up. I’ve done it enough times in the past, in much groggier states.

 

That’s what I’ll do. With my eyes closed. Because I’m not really awake. It’s just a figment of my imagination. Just swing one foot forward and one leap off the bed. Simple.

 

FUCK! I’m not cleaning that up. FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK!

 

I open my eyes and watch the spit and blood form a puddle on the floor. I can feel him staring at me. I don’t even have to look. I can’t be bothered. It’s not going anywhere. My bladder comes before all else. The rest will be waiting for me when I get back and I’m sure I’ll be on my hands and knees wiping up the mess I made.

 

I can’t do that with brick mortar crushing my kidneys. I need to relieve myself first. I walk halfway to the bathroom. He’s awake, which means he’s not sleeping, which means he can’t sleep. Which means he should really invest in a better nursemaid. Someone who notices these things the first time around.

 

“Are the pills wearing off?” I rub my eyes, clearing them of the little sleep I managed and see a blurry nod through my fingers. Forwards, backwards, forwards, backwards.

 

I suppose another minute of waiting won’t kill me. 

 

********** 

 

One measly Vicodin, that’s all my pain and suffering warrants. It’s a good thing I’m not an addict, because I’d have to find new friends to feed my addiction. He’s clearly not going to cooperate. I’ve never drank bottled water through a straw before. It reminds me of the apple juice boxes I’d have at lunchtime when I was a kid. I’d suck that thing dry for every drop. Waste not, want not. Obviously my oral fixation started early in life. Wouldn’t Joanie be proud to know that it all begins with her? If I subscribed to the theory that my life was ultimately all my parent’s fault, I suppose I could go back even further. She didn’t breast feed me. Where else was I going to get milk later in life? Hah. I’d love to see her face when I told her that one. Gay boys and their mommy issues on the next Dr. Phil Geraldo Springer.

 

“Are you delirious yet?” I watch him sneer at the paper towels he uses to clean the floor. He should be used to my bodily fluids by now. I don’t know what the big deal is.

 

“Absofuckinlutely.” I cross my hands on my chest and close my eyes, letting the pill work its magic. I’m not sure I like watching him flinch at trying to clean up my mess. Technically, I guess it’s the mess he made. Still, that’s me all over that floor and the thought that I gross him out kind of pisses me off.

 

It’s probably a good thing I don’t blame anyone else for my fuck-ups. I’m not sure I’d know where to start or when to end, or what I’d miss out on if I did. Like forgiveness, and all the times I’ve been forgiven, maybe even when I shouldn’t have been. Yeah... that whole concept of forgiveness, that’d be a hard one to justify if I constantly blamed someone else.

 

“Why do you get to sleep on your back?” he chirps, unsympathetically.

 

“What?” I figure it’s best to keep all of my conversations to one word answers. The less effort I have to make, the better off we both are.

 

“I mean, I realize you can’t lean on your face right now, but you sleep on your back all the time. You don’t see me complaining.” All I can do is stare murderously. “I think I figured out why you don’t like me to though.” He cockily tosses his rags into the wastebasket he’s holding and inspects his job. From the look on his face, he’s impressed himself. 

 

“Really?” Maybe I’ll try two words in a row on the next round of medication, exactly four hours from now.

 

“Yeah, you don’t want me to sleep.” I’m hoping it’s just the drugs starting to kick in. Only, he’s not the one taking them. “Do you remember how you used to always watch old movies when you couldn’t sleep? Back when you had a television that is...” Thanks for the reminder. “It was just the same movies, over and over. I think the familiarity kind of lulled you to sleep.”

 

“Uh-huh.” I have the distinct feeling he’s using my incapacitated state to his advantage. I can remember a few nights when he’d wake me up after I’d dozed off on the couch, complaining that the TV was too loud and he’d heard the movie a million times already. I think he just didn’t like having to sleep alone. I’m not sure I was ready to sleep with him constantly back then. I must have just gotten used to him being there after awhile.

 

“Well, my theory is that I sort of became the replacement for that. You keep me awake to entertain you, until you’ve tired yourself out. And if I’m dead asleep, then what good am I to you?” Huh?

 

“No.” That’s not how it is at all. I’m not a fucking puppy that needs a chewtoy to keep myself occupied.

 

“So, what’s the big deal if I snore a little?”

 

He’s really not that loud. It’s just that... I don’t know. I don’t want to get used to that sound. I don’t want to be able to predict every noise he’s going to make based on what position he’s in. I don’t want to be that person. I don’t want him to come drag me off the couch and then I obediently shut the television off and follow him. I don’t want to know that he takes three short breaths in before he lets out one long exhale of breath when he’s asleep on his back. I don’t want that. I just want him to sleep here. Be here. That’s all, no more than that. 

 

“Nothing.” My jaw hurts. I’ll save the rest for later.

 

“Good to know.”

 

He walks over me, missing my kneecap by less than an inch. He does that all the time. He never leaves the bed from his side, to get to my side of the room. And he never re-enters that way either. I can’t count the number of times he’s woken me up and I’ve watched him pee, waiting for him to come back so I could go back to bed and not be surprised by his footsteps kicking me awake all over again.

 

I watch him climb over me and sit cross-legged on the pillows. There’s not much to do in this apartment, now that it’s been stripped bare of all of his life’s necessities, television, stereo, computer, my cock. I look up to see him watching me out of the corner of his eye. He holds my stare for a moment and then lazily spreads his fingers in my hair, massaging my scalp with them, like he always does. 

 

I just want him to be here to do this. That’s all.

 

**********

Pop. Pop. Pop. Ouch! Motherfucking fuck! I suck my thumb between my teeth, biting down on the stinging sensation. That’s a nifty trick human beings are capable of, relieving pain with greater pain. Maybe I should stick it in some butter, or is it the other way around. Don’t stick a burn in butter? I can never remember these things. I’ll just put some cold water on it. I continue shaking with one hand and reach over the counter to try and reach the faucet. An unfortunate consequence of being human and not being made of rubber are those awful snapping sounds our bones make when we stretch them to capacity. If I stretch an inch more, I’ll pull my shoulder right out of its socket or snap my neck in two. Not that my death would greatly affect things. Given how well I’ve dealt all day, I wouldn’t be surprised if he mistook my cold, lifeless body for a cushion he thought he’d sold off long ago.

 

“Why don’t you just let go of the popcorn?” I’m startled enough by his voice coming up behind me, to do just that.

 

“You’re up!” I feebly try to pass my culinary masterpiece off onto him so I can concentrate on salvaging the remains of my thumb.

 

“Did you expect me to sleep through all of that noise? Christ, couldn’t you find something quieter to eat?” Personally, the smell would have woken me up. Noise I can deal with, it’s in one ear and out the other, but you can’t ignore the smell of something right underneath your nose. It’s not like you can choose to breathe or not breathe. “What are you planning on doing, marinating it in that butter? Why are you using the burner all the way back there?”

 

“Why are you asking so many questions? It’s only popcorn.” Cold water pours over my thumb, another nifty trick we’ve taught ourselves, how to numb the pain into submission when we can’t make it disappear. I like to drown my popcorn in butter, not drizzle or sprinkle it on, but soak it in butter. It grosses him out, especially when I get my hands all greasy and touch him.

 

“Aren’t you supposed to be the nice, compassionate, pet the feeble one? Where’s your consideration?” He clenches his jaw, rubbing it from the effort it took to say that many words at once, and alternates between shaking the popcorn and stirring the butter.

 

“My stomach swallowed it out of sheer starvation. Do you want some soup or something? I can make that when I’m done.” Soup seems like a fix all sympathetic gesture. Who can be mad at someone bearing soup? I shut the faucet off and feel the vein pulsing in my thumb, better that than pain.

 

“I think I’m capable of opening the can and dumping it in myself,” he mumbles, halfheartedly. Well I never said I could make it from scratch or anything. “If I could figure out where I’m supposed to put it, that is.” He inspects the burner situation, one Jiffy Pop on the front right burner, one small pot of melting butter on the back left burner and one pot with water to boil for hot cocoa on the front left burner.

 

“I was reading some book that Ben has. It says you’re supposed to use all four burners on the stove to keep the energy flowing or some shit.” From the look on his face, some shit seems most appropriate. “If you ignore some of the burners it means you’re ignoring certain parts of your life.”

 

“And what do you do if you only own a hot plate?” He shuts both active burners off and grabs a big wooden bowl to dump my midnight snack in.

 

“Admit defeat and immediately hang yourself,” I deadpan. That gets half of a half smile, it’s all he can manage in his sorry state. “I can do that.” He just shrugs his shoulders and pokes the foil on top of the package with a fork, careful to not let the steam burn his hands, unlike myself. I retrieve another pot for his soup, ignoring the lonesome back right burner, instead deciding to focus my energy on a place I can reach without a lot of effort, the no longer occupied front right burner.

 

It’s eerie in a way, this silence we make as he goes about finishing my popcorn to perfection, even if he wouldn’t so much as touch it on the healthiest of days, and I master the art of the electric can opener. It’s eerie but it’s not unexpected. He doesn’t like to be helpless and doesn’t like me to treat him like he is. He feels better when he’s active and I feel better knowing I can do something for him without being too obvious about it. Besides, I’m sure he’s starving. The least I can do is not fuck up a bowl of soup.

 

*******

 

I wasn’t really sleeping. It was more like keeping my eyes closed and being halfway between a daydream and consciousness. So, it’s not like he really woke me up. So, if I’m not mad at him, it’s okay, he didn’t really do anything wrong. He wasn’t being inconsiderate, even if he technically was because he didn’t know I wasn’t sleeping. Something tells me he did though, just like he always knew when I was no longer awake and paying attention to whatever movie I was watching. I bet he can tell the difference between my eyes being closed and me actually being asleep. He shouldn’t know all of that though. He’s too young to be so predictable. And I’m too old to rely on that. Too old to start using four fucking burners randomly, instead of two reliably. Who gives a shit how my chi is divided up?

 

Apparently he does.

 

He stirs the pathetic little pot of chicken soup, as if that will make it get hotter any quicker. Maybe he’s dividing up the energy in the pot, spreading the heat evenly so it’s not half-cooked. Fuck it, I should just be grateful that he’s here at all. Okay so I wanted him here, it’s not a big deal. It’s just that I don’t know many people who could put up with me under the best of circumstances, much less for hours on end with nothing else to do but sit and stare at the four walls. I can’t even talk to him without exceedingly painful effort. Somehow, he’s okay with that. That’s what he does best, put up with me. I’d rather shove that responsibility off on him. Otherwise, left to my own devices, all I’ve got are some really sturdy beams for support. I should know...

 

“How are you feeling?” He digs a hand into the deathtrap I’ve created for him, all butter. I picture his arteries clogging with every bite he takes.

 

“I feel like I just went on a marathon 72 hour blowjob session.” The sound of what might be words whistles through my front teeth.

 

“That good?” he smirks. “Well, you look like you went ten rounds with Zach O’ Toole’s cock and lost.” He loves my misery, he gets some sick satisfaction at me not being up to full speed.

 

“Fuck you.” That comes out loud and clear, with fully formed jaw movements.

 

“At least it got you talking, instead of whimpering.” He’s contrite and quiet. More quiet than contrite. “Are you in any kind of pain?” He turns his back to me, focusing all of his concentration on stirring my soup.

 

“It’s manageable.” It is, the worst of it is over, I think. I no longer feel like I want to disassemble my face, which is an improvement over where I was at this morning.

 

“Good, then grab a spoon and eat some of this. You shouldn’t be taking those painkillers without anything to settle your stomach.” If anyone knows that, it’s him I suppose. I’m right. What the fuck does it matter where your chi flows if you can’t control the rest of the universe. It doesn’t stop fists from flying or bats sailing through the air. 

 

Maybe I would have taken better care of myself if it really did matter. I wouldn’t be where I’m at now, all stitched together and dependent on something to ease the pain. I wouldn’t have let it get so out of control and ignored it for so long. Maybe I could have prevented this... all of this. But I still couldn’t control anyone else and neither could he. We shouldn’t have to, we should just be responsible for ourselves.

 

“I’m not hungry.” I turn to go back to bed.

“I don’t care.” He bangs the pot down on the burner. “Look, I know it hurts, okay? But trust me, it’ll hurt more when you have to dry heave because the fucking pills are making you nauseous, because you didn’t eat anything and you’ve got nothing to throw up. You need to put something in you. Now just fucking sit down and eat. ”

 

He splashes the hot liquid in a bowl, droplets hitting his already damaged hand. He doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care. I’m not sure. He shoves a spoon in, as a finishing touch and practically drops the bowl on the counter for me to retrieve.

 

Why did I want him here again?

 

I sit down with as much of a huff as I can conjure up, force feeding big spoonfuls of soup into my mouth. It feels good, and warm, not too hot. I don’t even have to blow on it to cool it off. Somehow it tastes better because someone else made it. Isn’t that always the case? We have a semi-staring contest as he watches me eat, like a sport, chowing down on his popcorn. When I finally start consuming the soup like a normal human being instead of an animal, he acquiesces and leans on the counter with his bowl. He plays with it, more than he eats it, suddenly not very hungry after all.

 

I reach across the counter to his grease filled, death beckoning limp hand hovering above the bowl and stop him from picking at nothing.

 

“It’s good. It’s what I needed” He meets my look with half-lids, not willing to believe me, just yet. “Thanks.” He nods his head, bites his bottom lip and looks down at the bowl, at our hands dangling precariously above the cushioning of soggy, butter filled popcorn. And down he shoves, smiling wickedly while I squirm.

 

Maybe that’s why I wanted him here. To force my hand.

 

***** 

 

They should be here any minute now. I hope he doesn’t get mad, it’s just that when they called they were all concerned and I figured he’d be up for seeing the rest of civilization after two days of solitary confinement. Michael thought we were both dead. That’s what you get for not answering your phone for two days. It must be a relief to him that Brian is okay. Besides, I’m sure he’s sick of seeing nothing but me for such a long stretch of time. I’d by lying if I said I was sick of him. I find him fascinating to look at, if nothing else. He looks different from every angle. With his swollen cheeks, it’s been a whole new experience seeing him like I’ve never seen him before.

 

I have to go home though, I’m sure Daphne is wondering where I am and I’m exhausted. Being attentive to his needs is a full time job. I’d never cut it as a nurse. I can barely handle one patient with patience, much less a whole roster full of perfect strangers. I need to breathe some fresh air, not the stale, recycled air we’ve been exchanging for the past couple of days. I like feeling the cold sting my face every now and then, it shakes me out of my comfort zone and forces me to walk faster, get where I’m going with purpose and survive without much damage. I even like the snow on the ground, especially the parts no one has walked on yet. I like being the first person to mark their territory with my footprints.

 

Brian likes to think I need to be with him all the time, but the truth is I like having my own space to take care of and to fuck up if I feel like it. It’s just that, at the end of the day when I’m finished with the rest of the world and whatever mess I’ve made or thing I’ve accomplished, I like him to be there to make me forget it or encourage me to keep moving in the right direction. I need him to be there. So, the way I see it, he’s wrong, I don’t need him all the time. I just need him at the end, when no one else is around. 

 

I think I survived okay without him whenever I needed to, until it was time to wind down for the day. I always get anxious at that point. That’s when I wanted him the most. Sometimes I had nightmares, sometimes I just couldn’t sleep. Then the morning would come and I’d convince myself that that would be the day things would change and that’s how I’d get through it. Until the end.

 

Morning is here and it’s cold outside.

 

“Going somewhere?” I continue shoving my socks into my backpack as he wanders back in from the bathroom.

 

“I’m going home. The second string will be here to take over in a few minutes.” My restlessness catches up with me. I’m suddenly more tired than I have been, in a while.

 

“What ragtag team is that?” He props his head up with a couple of pillows. Not that I expected him to care that I was leaving, but you know... oh, forget it.

 

“Michael, Lindsay and Debbie. I bet her chicken soup is a thousand times better than mine,” I laugh, because we both know it’s true. There’s not even a contest. “And Lindsay and Michael will make sure you’re thoroughly pampered.”

 

“Doesn’t matter.” He brushes off my attempt at levity with a seriousness I didn’t expect. I feel awkward having him watch me in silence.

“At least you’ve stopped spitting blood and you still have feeling in your lip and chin.” Funny, I don’t even remember my dentist mentioning it to me as a possible consequence. I’m not even sure I knew I was having them removed. I didn’t pay much attention because he mostly spoke to my mother about it and she made all the decisions. I just opened my mouth and let him have his way. What can I say, I’m easy like that. “Now, just think, you can fit 12 inches in there instead of 10 with all that extra space.”

 

“Too bad I haven’t figured out how to give myself head yet.” I zip my bag and laugh. He’ll be just fine without me. “Don’t let them in,” he mock pleads with a sullen pout.

 

“Why not? They’ll wait on you hand on foot.” I sit on the edge of the bed and rub his scalp.

 

“They’ll never leave.” He has a point. “Besides, I can take care of myself.”

 

“They’re worried about you,” I raise my eyebrow down at him. “Let them at least see that you’re okay, or they really won’t leave you alone. It’s nice of them to at least try. You don’t know how important that is or how many people would love to have so many people concerned about them.” I watch my hand pick at the cuff of my shirt with my burnt thumb.

 

“They didn’t remove my spleen, just a few teeth for fuck’s sake. Did someone wipe your ass when you had it done?” 

 

“My mother let me eat ice cream all night and I felt fine by midnight, minus the stomachache all the ice cream gave me. It wasn’t a big deal.” 

 

“Figures. You sailed right through.” He makes a whooshing motion with his hand. “They just slipped them out and you went on like nothing happened.” I can’t tell if he’s seriously depressed or just putting on an act so I don’t leave him alone with the vultures.

 

“That’s me. They just put me back together and I keep moving forward without looking back.” Except when I can’t, always at the end. Didn’t he know how much I needed him? I bat away the thoughts that preoccupy my mind with a few swift blinks. It’s alright. It doesn’t matter.

 

I feel a tug on my arm, pulling me down towards his face. He puts his mouth to my ear, rubbing the crown of my head. “312B, right side of the corridor. A window pane like they were watching a fucking science experiment gone awry, every night.”

 

I look at him. That’s all I can do. He looks back. I hold on without a blink.

 

“Brian?” I hear Michael’s voice before I hear the door open.

 

Always at the end, when I need him most.

 

******

 

He scurries off the bed like we’re about to get caught doing something we shouldn’t have been doing. Given that it’s the two of us, he’s probably right. We shouldn’t be doing all of that. No one wants to see us that way. I smell chicken soup and bury whatever appetite I might have had. I don’t want that. Debbie puts too much shit in hers. I like it simple, like he made it, broth and chicken without all the extras.

 

I hear sneakers scuffing my wood floors, running up to the bedroom, before a huge propulsion of air hits me and the bed practically bounces off the floor. When I open my eyes to survey the damage, Michael is laying across my stomach smiling up at me, Lindsay is sitting at the foot of my bed and Justin is halfway out of the room, giving me a pitiful wave goodbye.

 

“How is the crown prince of misery?” Lindsay asks.

 

“Did they give you stitches? I know how much you hate getting stitches,” Michael stares at my mouth like he’s going to will it open by looking long enough. He’s been there for every stitch, scrape and bruise. He probably knows my medical history better than I do.

 

I can see Justin kissing Debbie hello, making small talk. From the look on her face she’s chastising him for not calling sooner. He nods his head obediently and kisses her cheek, throwing the strap of his bag over his shoulder.

 

I pull myself out from under Michael’s weight, climbing out of my side of the bed, walk past Lindsay, into the kitchen. I check what burner Debbie is occupying, back left. We never moved the rest of the pots. She has no other choice, unless she wants to wash all of our dirty dishes. I would never ask her or anyone else to do that. We made the mess, we’ll clean it up later.

 

“Justin.” I walk towards the door, and catch him before he can open the elevator shaft.

 

“Yeah?”

 

I’m not sure what to say. I don’t even know why I’m standing in the middle of my door and the hallway, my feet freezing on the cold concrete just outside my door. I don’t even know why he’s still here, why I’m not letting him go. “Come back.” He looks hesitant, my hands move around the air for no good reason, dividing up the oxygen. “Whenever you’re done.” I feel myself smile and my jaw doesn’t hurt doing it. “Save me from this.”

 

His eyes soften. “You don’t need me to save you. You’ll be alright without me.” He comes towards me rubbing the side of my jaw gingerly.

 

That’s where he’s wrong. I’m not. I’m not alright without him. I don’t know if I need him but I know I’m not okay without him. Which some would say meant I needed him, but I don’t need things. I want what I want when I want it. I want him to not leave and if he does I want him to come back. I want him more than I need him and I think maybe it’s better to want something than to need it. Nothing motivates you to need, you do it because you have to. To want something, to truly want something and to get it and keep it, that requires a lot more drive.

 

I want to need him. I think it may have already started.

 

“So you’ll be back, right?”

 

“I’ll be here.” With that, he walks away.

 

He lifts the rickety wood and steps inside the elevator. I watch him slowly move out of my sight, as the elevator begins to move down.

 

Even when he’s gone, he’s still here, occupying empty spaces. I couldn’t ask for more


End file.
